


52 Tricks

by Allecto



Category: Now You See Me (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-15 03:08:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13021974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allecto/pseuds/Allecto
Summary: In the interlude between Now You See Me and Now You See Me 2, they have to pass the time somehow.Or, Atlas can do at least 52 tricks, Dylan's job is taking care of everyone, Merritt doesn't give a shit, and Jack just wants to give everyone a fucking good time.  Pun intended.Happy Yuletide, Catherine!  I hope you enjoy.





	52 Tricks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Catherines_Collections](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catherines_Collections/gifts).



“Come on,” Atlas said, “let me teach you a trick,” which was, objectively speaking, _a terrible pick up line_ , except in the sense that it worked.

Later, Jack would claim it was cabin fever from being locked up with Atlas and Merritt for months on end. Dylan would claim he was just taking care of them all, as he had always done. And Merritt didn’t give a shit.

The point remained, Atlas insisted he could show Jack things in bed, show them all things, blow their minds (“and your cocks,” Atlas added every time Jack retold the story of how they got together, “I blew those too.” “Yeah,” Merritt said, “we were there. No one else needs to know.”) and Jack couldn’t let that go by unchallenged.

Atlas was a pretty good magician, maybe even their leader if you didn’t count Dylan (“Thanks,” Dylan always said, and Atlas said, “No, I mean, of course I count you. Who doesn’t count Dylan? Jack, why aren’t you counting Dylan, what’s wrong with you?”), but that didn’t make him better at _sex_ or anything. He couldn’t flip cards like Jack, and he couldn’t flip… orgasms. Or something.

Anyway, Atlas issued a challenge (“ _Offer_ ”) and Jack picked it up, and well, Jack and Merritt had been sharing a bunk for awhile so Merritt had to come along to supervise Jack and Atlas, and Dylan happened to be on break from the FBI so he had to supervise Merritt, and the point was, they all ended up naked together, which was a lot of skin, and dick, and ego.

Also, Jack ended up on his knees, face against Merritt’s surprisingly toned stomach while Atlas, who had already come, stroked his back and Dylan twisted a fourth finger inside of him. He hadn’t known he could take four fingers. He hadn’t known he could take _three_ fingers, but that wasn’t really relevant because Dylan didn’t have small hands, but he had a lot of lube and a lot of patience and oh god, every push was brushing sparks behind Jack’s eyes and Atlas, Atlas’s hand was gentle on his back, too gentle, his whole body prickled and he pressed his face down, down, nuzzled Merritt’s cock because he needed _something_ , something to hold onto, to ground him, and Merritt never said no. 

Merritt’s cock was uncut, but he was hard, pushed through the foreskin, and he tasted _so good_ , heavy and salty and sweaty and Dylan kept pushing, twisting, it was too much, too much except for how it wasn’t enough, how Atlas kept his touch so light and Jack was floating, only Merritt’s dick in his mouth and murmur in his ear, “atta boy, good boy, I got you,” keeping him grounded. And then Dylan slipped his hand out, and he knew, he _knew_ it was coming back, five fingers this time, a hand, he could hear the squelch of more lube, but god, he felt so empty and he couldn’t help whimpering, groaning, he needed -- Atlas, who gripped his cock tightly enough to pull him down, and Merritt, who squeezed the back of his neck, “don’t stop now, Jack, I ain’t done with you yet,” -- and Dylan was back already, like a contortionist, like a plug, like no one else on earth, pushing that hand inside him and sending lights exploding through his body.

“You’re good,” Dylan said, and “keep sucking, you can do it,” which later Jack would claim was the most positive feedback Dylan had ever given one of his performances but now, now it was just what he had to do. He _had_ to, had to be good, for Dylan, for Merritt, for _himself_ because he could feel it building inside him, so big, so overwhelming, but he couldn’t come before Merritt did, not when they were taking care of him, not when Merritt kept him grounded, kept him safe and good and tugged on his hair and when his mouth flooded, finally, when he swallowed and swallowed and Merritt moaned deep and low and Dylan flexed his fingers, once, twice, Jack screamed and everything went white for long, blissful moments.

When the world resolved again he was limp, leaning against Merritt, those arms around his and his stomach resting on Atlas’s knees and “steady,” Dylan said, so he took a breath and let it out as Dylan pulled away, slowly, long enough to put a condom on. He couldn’t take it, he _couldn’t_ , but it was Dylan who always took care of all of them, Dylan who almost never took anything for himself, so Jack took another breath and steadied himself and Dylan gripped his hips and pushed inside again. His dick was smaller than his fist had been, but it felt huge, Jack felt too much, every stroke too much, every stroke for Dylan. It hurt, almost, too good, too deep, too soon, but he had Dylan’s hands, his fingers, pressing bruises into his bones, and Atlas still holding his middle, knowing and not quite caring but not quite anything else, and Merritt, there at his shoulders, his face, warm and steady and he wouldn’t -- couldn’t -- be anywhere else.

When Dylan shuddered against him and pulled away Jack whispered, voice too hoarse for anything, “stay, this time.”

Dylan laughed, “just getting a washcloth,” and Merritt pulled him closer, helped him settle. Atlas found a plug, just a small one so he wasn’t empty all at once, and they wiped him down, wiped each other, and somehow, some way Jack was too tired to figure out, they all of them fit in the bed. Fit against each other.

In the morning Merritt would make pancakes, because he always did, and Atlas would want gluten-free blueberry muffins and fresh-squeeze orange juice, and Dylan would fill the fridge with groceries and make some truly atrocious coffee, courtesy of the FBI, before heading out again, but that was okay. Jack had their measure, now, and they had his. He could be good, he could wait for the Eye, as long as he had the three of them. Atlas would insist he’d taught them all something, but Jack knew, he knew he’d been the best in bed because they’d told him so (“not _the best_ , those were not anyone’s literal words,” Atlas would say, and Merritt would tell him, “shut up, Buffy,” and Jack would stifle a laugh), and Dylan would run away (but he always returned, as long as they gave him enough time), and Merritt would be there, always, his rock.

Maybe he’d teach Merritt to flip cards; they’d have to do something to pass the time until his old man dick was ready for another round.

Jack’s mouth was watering already.


End file.
